


Risk

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Crack, Dark, Deathfic, Horror, M/M, Madness, Police Procedural, R/NC-17 - Red Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-07
Updated: 2008-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Stakes are ever higher.





	Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

  
Author's notes: Part 7 of the Psycho!Samatic Cycle. There is, truly, a place in hell reserved for me and my friends. No need to tell me; I already know. Extra-special thanks to fellow conspirators/fantabulous beta team of Andy and Cuvalwen, without whom none of this would be possible. Really.  


* * *

_That_ had been some night.

 

 

Sam hadn't known anything could be like _that_. Sure, he'd had plenty of sex previously, but always with about a million hangups and horrible thoughts echoing throughout his head that didn't allow him to enjoy it anywhere _near_ as much as he was meant to.

 

 

He never would previously have suspected he'd get on (or off) like that with Chris, but there was a lot about his young protegé he'd learnt in recent times that he hadn't really expected.

 

 

He certainly hadn't thought Chris had been the one copying his MO move for move. A small part of him had thought so, perhaps, only he didn't want to believe it. He wasn't even sure why he didn't want to believe it, but it just didn't seem fitting somehow. Chris was so innocent, so sweet... he seemed to genuinely have his heart in the right place, if not always his hands or feet. Last night, however, proved this view of Chris to be completely and utterly wrong. Sam twitched involuntarily as he remembered exactly _how_ wrong. The other man might be younger biologically, but Sam wasn't even sure he'd touched on the depths of his _knowledge_. He shivered and shuddered excitedly at the sense-memories flooding him, then continued to reflect.

 

 

In some ways, this was a relief. At last, someone _understood_. He'd been trying for so long to get someone to understand, _anyone_. He'd thought Annie had, at least for a little while. But lately, she'd been so distant. Maybe at the beginning, she'd only been humouring him. He wasn't sure.

 

 

Gene probably understood a bit more, but not any of the truly important stuff. Or maybe he _did_ , but just didn't _want_ to. Gene was a good copper, and underneath his gruff exterior was essentially an all right bloke, but that was all the more reason he could never, ever know about any of this.

 

 

Sam smiled an entirely genuine smile, something of a rarity for him these days. Then he opened his eyes. And saw Chris had left at some point prior to his waking.

 

 

_Oh well, I suppose I can't blame him. It's all a bit much for me, as well._ Sam thought, with absolutely no malice. He even sang a bit as he took a hot-water shower to clean up before heading off to work.

******

When Sam had first set foot in CID, it seemed as though time had stopped. Not just for him, but for everyone around him. The reason for this was very simple: both he and they were completely out of step with one another. Any office environment counts on the cogs within to fit together and roll smoothly, or else things start to go wrong and spanners need to be brought in and applied appropriately.

 

 

Once he'd grasped this, Sam had, quite naturally, believed himself to be the all-powerful spanner-wielder. He believed he was going to be the one to fix anything that needed fixing within the department, including any and all methodologies they currently utilised. Most of CID was, of course, bemused by the whole thing (to say the least). 

 

 

Gene, however, had been open-minded enough to give this poor strangely-coiffed new bloke a chance. Soon, it seemed, they'd developed a sort of unique rapport that the rest of CID grudgingly accepted, and some even came to admire. If any of them did admire anyone, it was Gene Hunt. So anyone of whom Gene approved, especially when it came to his team and his city, had to be more than fine in their eyes.

 

 

This was, of course, why it came as a bit of a shock when Gene, very quietly and calmly, instructed everyone in CID to send Sam into his office the moment he arrived. 

 

 

It wasn't that it was odd for him to want to see Sam first thing in the morning. It was more how he said it. Gene Hunt was many things, and usually 'quiet' was not the first attribute that came to mind.

 

 

Sam opened the door to CID, pausing to check that he'd stopped humming. He'd been humming all morning, ever since getting out of the shower; just couldn't seem to stop, in fact. The grin on his face was even more eerie than the one he'd borne when delivering sweets to the department a short while ago, because this time there was some sort of _feeling_ behind it. No-one, if pressed, could say _what_ feeling, exactly; however, he was now alarming more than just deaf old ladies who passed him in the street.

 

 

"Boss wants a word with you." Ray stood, arms crossed, with a distinct smirk on his face. He couldn't wait to see the show they'd put on today. He only wished he had a nice packet of crisps to eat whilst admiring the grand display of fisticuffs he was sure he was about to witness.

 

 

Sam was in such a good mood now that not even Ray's obvious pleasure in the fact he thought Sam was about to get a right bollocking from the Guv could destroy it. Sam saluted Ray cheerfully. "Many thanks, kind sir!" He smiled.

 

 

Ray's features worked from disgusted, to worried, then finally back to neutral. Half of this was missed by others in the room, however, as it was neatly hidden by his 'tache.

******

"Mornin', Guv. You wanted to see me?" Sam asked, almost as eagerly as a small puppy.

 

 

"I never want to see you, and after this I'll probably never want to see you again," Gene replied, puffing absently on a fag as he leaned back thoughtfully in his chair.

 

 

Sam blinked, then checked the Guv's face to see if he was joking. No...no...it didn't seem like he was.

 

 

As his vision shifted back to Gene, he noticed a small evidence bag closed round a vial of what looked like blood. He also noticed another evidence bag holding what looked like some scrapings of dried blood, as well as another that looked a lot like a length of yarn. But most damning of all, a final bag held one of the lollipops.

 

 

"Sam, is there something you haven't been telling me?" Gene said quietly, which was somehow far more ominous than any amount of his overly-testosterone-fuelled raging could ever be.

 

 

Sam's face drained completely of all its blood. He couldn't believe Gene had just used _his name_ to address him. Something was clearly wrong.

 

 

"Well," he swallowed anxiously, buying himself at least a couple more seconds. "I've been doing a bit of research on my own, and I've collected some evidence, as you can see." _Good one,_ he inwardly patted himself on the back. 

 

 

"Oh? And just when were you planning to bring this evidence to light for the rest of us?" Gene scowled, wanting to believe Sam but fairly certain he shouldn't.

 

 

"I wanted to be sure I'd really gotten something first," Sam finished, somewhat lamely. 

 

 

"So you thought you'd do a little home experimentation? Are you a skilled forensics expert?" By this time, Gene had stepped around his desk and was now hovering menacingly over Sam as he sat in the chair opposite. 

 

 

"No, but..." Sam was ridiculously distraught and panicky, his skin distinctly ashen and unhealthy-looking.

 

 

"But nothing. You bring anything and everything to _me_. You're _my_ DI. I can't have coppers in MY unit going off in all directions like flecks of spit out of a spastic's mouth, understood?" Gene leaned into Sam's face and scowled. 

 

 

Sam looked up and held Gene's gaze for a long, uncertain moment. _You trust me, don't you? You know me..._ he thought desperately, trying his best to transmit telepathically. 

 

 

Gene squinted, staring back at Sam unblinkingly, refusing to break eye contact. He wasn't sure of his DI, was the trouble. He'd thought he'd been; sure, Sam was a bit of a ponce with all his fancy ways, but in the end he did all right. Didn't he? Gut instinct told him his DI had to be telling him the truth. _Had_ to. It was, after all, the only logical explanation. _Bloody hell, now he's gettin' to me. Did I just spend any great deal of time thinking about "logic"?_

 

 

At last, Sam looked down at his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap. He looked on point of breaking; very small, very pathetic, and very sad.

 

 

Gene took pity on him, figured this case in particular had finally broken Sam, finally shown him how truly inhuman some of the scum of society were. The very scum they were trying so hard to keep his city safe from. 

 

 

"Maybe you need an afternoon off," Gene said, slowly. 

 

 

"What?" Sam was startled.

 

 

"Maybe you've been spending too much time on this case. Afternoon off might do your head good. Could use all the help it could get," Gene snorted, almost seemingly back to normal.

 

 

Sam's eyes involuntarily slid over the mass of evidence gathered on the table, a fact which Gene of course did not miss. Gene squinted suspiciously, which Sam, in his present state, missed entirely.

 

 

"I...guess I'll be on my way, then. Thanks, Guv." Sam stood up, slightly off-balance, and turned to leave.

 

 

Gene grunted and sat down behind his desk. He had an afternoon to work things out in his head, and he wasn't liking where any of it was going.

******

Having nowhere else he wanted to be, Sam headed back to his flat. He couldn't work out how the Guv had gotten hold of those bits of evidence he had... well, except Chris must have given them to him. But _why_? He refused to believe his judgment was _that_ clouded by the events of last night. He was, after all, a much more reasoned, level-headed sort of person than that.

 

 

Which was why, when he swung the door of his flat open and found Chris sitting inside, nonchalantly sipping at a glass of whisky, reason was utterly damned once and forevermore.

 

 

"What are you doing here?" was all Sam could manage, although he did have the presence of mind to toe his door shut behind him and draw the new chain he'd installed last week in a half-hearted attempt to stop the Guv entering whenever he liked. 

 

 

Chris gestured to the small, greasy-looking bag next to him on the table. "I'd left to get us breakfast, but when I got back, you were gone." He smiled reassuringly. "Oh, and I dropped off that 'evidence' you were going to with DCI Hunt. For, what did you call it? _Analysis_? Boss."

 

 

Sam smiled back, though he could swear he hadn't mentioned any such thing to Chris. Still, he was willing to go along with it for the moment. He liked to think he knew when and how to choose his battles effectively.

 

 

"So what's for breakfast, then?" Sam nodded toward the bag on the table.

 

 

"It's a bit cold, now, I'm not sure you'd like it," Chris sighed dolefully, getting up off his chair and moving to toss the whole bag in the bin.

 

 

Sam winced as his stomach growled quite loudly. Chris deposited the bag in the bin, turned, and quirked an eyebrow.

 

 

"Hungry, boss?"

 

 

"Starving."

 

 

"Let's see what we can do about that, shall we?"

 

 

Chris crossed the room in a swift, assured motion, unlike his usual gangly awkwardness. This was a completely different Chris, one he didn't often expose to harsh and unflattering sunlight. Sam was excited, but at the same time, slightly frightened. 

 

 

Chris grabbed Sam's arms and pulled him close, smothering Sam's mouth at once with his own. Tongues duelled in a now-familiar dance, broken only when Chris rather savagely bit down on Sam's lower lip, drawing the tiniest drop of blood at the new split that had opened in the center. 

 

 

Chris licked his own lips reflexively as he firmly but gently pushed Sam down to his knees with both hands before using those same hands to undo his flies. 

 

 

"All the meat you'll love to eat," he grinned, and it was cold and cruel and frightening and lovely to behold. 

 

 

Not to be outdone, Sam grabbed at a roll of butcher's twine that had been sitting on the table next to take one of "breakfast." His eyes never left Chris' as he wordlessly took the twine in his hands and bit off a length, lightly licking the ends and pulling them so they stood taught. He smiled almost lovingly as he pulled a slipknot round his forefinger, then widened it and slipped it round Chris' by now enthusiastically engorged cock. Now Sam's eyes flicked away, just for a moment, as he adjusted the tension on the line till it was tight enough but not _too_ much so. He slid this loop to the base of Chris' cock, adjusted the tension once more, and then reverently looped it round each of Chris' mightily swollen balls; now winding back underneath the first loop, now forming a new loop, winding back, forward, again and again; finally ending with a nicely tied-off loop just underneath the head. 

 

 

"Pork tenderloin," Sam caught Chris' eyes and smiled. Chris smiled back, putting all the warmth he could into it as he none-too-gently poked Sam in the nose with his newly-trussed member. Wasting no time, Sam set to work, first licking Chris' head and swirling his tongue all around it, paying particular attention to the underside, where he knew his own was most sensitive. Chris bucked and swayed and fell back against the table, leaning on it with both arse and hands and bracing himself against it as Sam moved onward. Sam laved his tongue all down Chris' length, teasing his cock with feather-light licks tracing over where he'd looped round with the twine. When he got to the base, he twirled his tongue once round each ball, making sure to lick all over, then took each gently in his mouth, lightly grazing his teeth over the sensitive and nubbly skin that connected balls to cock. 

 

 

Meanwhile, Chris made little actual noise apart from breathing hard and bucking slightly against the table, which creaked a bit under their combined weight. His eyes were screwed shut tight, and his breath began to come in ragged, unsteady gasps as sensation heightened, particularly when Sam's teeth bit down a bit harder than he'd initially intended.

 

 

"Sorry about that," Sam said, and he really _was_.

 

 

Chris grunted noncommitally, by now too far gone under Sam's ministrations to offer more words of encouragement. Sam decided to atone for this most cardinal of sins immediately, and staring up at Chris' face once more, immediately took the entire length of Chris' swollen, purplish, vein-ridged cock into his mouth. He hadn't really done much of this before; he'd tried once or twice in his teen years to get his own into his mouth, and had _almost_ succeeded, but in the meanwhile he'd learnt quite well what _he_ personally enjoyed and now applied this knowledge as best he could. By now, Chris' fists were tangled in Sam's hair as he shoved his head forward, down, as far as it could go and his balls continuously knocked velvetly into Sam's chin as he fucked his mouth. 

 

 

Immediately understanding, Sam wrapped his lips round his teeth so he could provide more friction but not cause unpleasant amounts of pain; Chris responded by bucking ever harder and faster and nearly choking Sam with his propulsion. At last, Chris came, shooting an unbelievable amount of stickiness into Sam's mouth and down the back of his throat. 

 

 

Sam immediately stood up, looking absolutely pleased with what he'd accomplished as Chris still shuddered, deep scratches by now worked into Sam's scalp from the way he'd been grasping his head so roughly. Stepping forward, Sam grabbed Chris' head, twining his own fingers behind it to pull him forward so he could descend upon his mouth like he'd not eaten in days.

 

 

As he prised Chris' lips apart with his tongue, he ever so slightly allowed a trickle of Chris' seed to find its way into Chris' mouth, intermingling with their tongues and saliva and providing a salty counterpoint to their increasing madness. Sam opened his eyes at this point to check if Chris' expression had changed, but no; clearly, he was enjoying himself as much as Sam had hoped. 

 

 

It was then Chris' hands began to work their way down Sam's body, ripping his shirt off, entirely heedless of buttons or seams or fabric and the barrier they posed. As he did this, Sam freed himself of his trousers as quickly as possible, stepping neatly out of one leg and flinging them entirely across the room with the other as he kicked them off. 

 

 

It was at this point Chris finally opened his eyes, meanwhile pushing Sam back to arm's length. He looked Sam up and down appraisingly, then held out his hand as though waiting for something to be deposited within it.

 

 

Wordlessly, Sam handed him the twine, throat suddenly going dry with anticipation. He coughed slightly.

 

 

"Thirsty work, Boss?" Chris smiled. "Most birds aren't nearly so thorough. I should be thanking you," he smiled again as he lightly tossed the ball of twin from hand to hand. "Here, have some of this, it'll set you right," he said, handing Sam the tumbler of whiskey he'd been contemplating when Sam had come back to the flat.

 

 

"Thanks," Sam said, a slight croak in his voice as he accepted the tumbler readily and downed what was left in one. 

 

 

"Need more? I've still got the bottle," Chris gestured behind him. "Here, let me get you some more," he said, grabbing the tumbler out of Sam's hand and hastily grabbing the whiskey bottle.

 

 

Sam stood, naked, aroused to the point of frustration, but attempting to be patient as he knew he could expect something wonderful was coming. As surely as he'd expected, Chris turned around again a moment later and handed Sam the newly-filled tumbler with a slight flourish. "Here you are, boss. Just how you like it," he smiled again.

 

 

"Thanks." Sam, by now, really wanted less of the whiskey and more of Chris' attention, but he didn't want to be rude. He took a few more gulps of the whiskey and felt its familiar warmth singe all down the length of his throat, forming a fiery pit in his stomach as it roiled and churned with the copious amounts of liquid protein he'd ingested moments before. "Good thing I'm not drinking on an empty stomach," he smiled, putting the tumbler down. 

 

 

"No, no, drink it down, Boss. I want you _relaxed_." Chris grinned with what he hoped was a winning combination of 'evil' and 'seductive'. 

 

 

"Do you?" Sam's eyes fairly shone with excitement as he greedily gulped down as much of the fiery liquid as he could in one go. And winced as he saw two of Chris. Then, blinking and shaking his head, he saw three...then four..."It's like counting sheep, this!" Sam giggled, suddenly giddy and forgetting himself and where he was and what he was meant to be doing. His previously impressive erection shrivelled as he laughed and laughed, sinking to his knees on the floor and finally passing out.

 

 

"Didn't think you had it in you, Boss. Not many people can drink almost as much as the Guv," Chris muttered, all seriousness now as he lightly kicked Sam's leg. 

 

 

Sam twitched slightly in response, but otherwise had none. He was utterly unconscious, which was exactly what Chris wanted.

 

 

"Come on, now. Up you get," Chris huffed slightly as he pulled Sam's dead weight up and began looping twine around him; he started with a loop round the neck, a slightly larger version of the one Sam had tied earlier round the base of his cock. Then he continued round the length of Sam's body, taking care to loop it all the way round his arms and legs to bind them together behind him. After he bound Sam's ankles, he struggled mightily to heave Sam's body up and onto his butcher's block table, face down, so he could tie the now tightly-bound ankles to Sam's wrists.

 

 

"Trussed up like a Christmas turkey," Chris mumbled, standing back and admiring his work. "Just one detail...there." He tied the ends of the twine binding Sam's ankles to his wrists into a bow any grandmother would be proud of. 

 

 

He then gathered his clothes, got dressed, and sat down for a moment of contemplation. He was in no rush now, after all.

******

After approximately half an hour, Chris came to a decision. It wasn't one he necessarily liked, but it was what needed to be done.

 

 

As he stared at Sam's unconscious form so snugly tied on the table, he began to realise that this treatment wouldn't do at all. He'd let himself get carried away, a thought which he found curious simply because he'd never _done_ such a thing before. He'd always been much, much more careful about everything, from which vest he wore to whether or not he grew a funny tache to seem as though he wanted to emulate Ray, to the carefully-scripted conversations he'd held with Ray about his cluelessness with women. There wasn't _anything_ in his life he hadn't thought out and planned down to within a millimetre of its life. In some ways, really, he was what Hyde must aspire to, with every single detail of everything so very carefully regimented. He smirked at this thought. Sam wanting to be like him. No one would ever believe _that_ , but if Sam only knew...

 

 

Then the shutters flew back over Chris' eyes, and had anyone been around to witness it, they couldn't have helped but notice the brief light had gone out, and they were back to their normal flat, coldness. When not hidden by his careful mask of hapless puppy-dog charm, this was painfully evident. Luckily, no-one but him ever saw it. Well, except Sam, but it clearly wasn't very lucky for _him_.

 

 

Yes, he'd gone about things with Sam all wrong. This required rectification. But still, he couldn't resist admiring his handiwork for a moment longer. Sam wouldn't be waking up anytime soon; he'd seen to that.

******

Sam's eyes felt as though they'd been scrubbed with steel wool. He tried to open them, but it hurt almost unbearably to do so. Finally, the right one opened, then the left. He blinked. He wasn't sure where he was, but thought he saw what looked like Chris sitting on a chair, cradling an empty whiskey bottle and staring at him silently, blankly, no hint of any expression whatsoever on his face.

 

 

Then all went black again, and he sank gratefully into the darkness, away from the pain of opening his eyes.

******

Chris deftly untwisted the twine he'd wrapped so carefully around Sam, being careful not to cause any undue abrasion that might raise questions later on. Most of it came away easily, since it had been so recently tied and he was good at picking the knots apart with his fingernails. The last bit, however, was the first bit which had gone on, and as such had more pressure applied to it than any other knot as the twine had been continuously tugged, tied, retied, and adjusted. Annoyed, Chris finally dispensed with attempting to pull it apart using only his fingers, and instead sliced it open with the small pocketknife he had on a keychain in his pocket.

 

 

The hard part was now over. Chris snatched up a spare clown, identical to the ones the victims had been carrying, and posed Sam carefully so he was snuggling the clown in his sleep, almost lovingly. He then took a small vial of the blood the shower hadn't yet utilised and carefully poured it into the moat round the edge of the table. _Just like framing a painting._

 

 

It was then he noticed a spot of blood pooling out of a small cut on Sam's neck, just below the left earlobe, which was facing upward as sleeping Sam snuggled his only remaining friend with the pretty yarn hair. Chris frowned, then ever so delicately licked the spot away like a cat lapping cream. He then gave the scene a once-over, determined all was truly as it should be, and set off to phone in his gruesome find.

 

 

He picked up the phone and dialed CID immediately.

 

 

Phyllis answered, and Chris stuttered his story out as best he could, nearly in hysterics at the awful thing he'd just found. He couldn't believe it, any of it; it would really be best if she'd just let the Guv know right away there was a situation. A break in the case involving all those poor murdered girls.

 

 

"Where are you, anyway?"

 

 

"DI Tyler's flat."

 

 

Phyllis rang off after a moment of stunned silence and the line went dead.

******

Vague bits and pieces of words filtered through the darkness into Sam's consciousness, though his eyes stayed shut and any outside observer wouldn't have thought he was registering any of it. Ray yelling something disgustedly and heaving up in something porcelain---probably the toilet, as it flushed a moment later. Then cold air rushing past and a sense of movement as someone carried him bodily out to the waiting vehicle---the Cortina, by the smell. Then unpleasant itchiness as a rough blanket was thrown over him in the backseat. As the car hurtled through the streets of Manchester toward CID and rounded a corner particularly sharply, Sam's head knocked against the door and sent him hurtling back from the edge of consciousness. 


End file.
